In the Garden
by Aina Baggins
Summary: Frodo agonises over watching the gardener,


I can see him more clearly if I turn my head _this_ way, but I have lost all appearance of reading the book that lies open in my hands.   
  
Darn.   
  
Rivulets of sweat trickle down his bare back as it arches and stretches in the hazy afternoon sun. It is hot, even from where I am sitting in the shade that covers my reading chair by Bag End's front door, and I can feel moist droplets gathering behind my knees and on my upper lip.   
  
Sam grunts as he works the shovel back and forth, turning the compost. Leather braces slide over his bare shoulders, lubricated with a combination of sweat and the smooth, steady rhythm of his movements.   
  
I shiver despite the heat of the day and try to think chaste thoughts.   
  
When he stops and wipes a hand across his brow, back turned to me, I notice that the waistband of his breeches is darkened with dampness, and the fabric is clinging to him in all the places I'd rather it not.   
  
Oh my…   
  
I snap my book shut and get to my feet. Torn between rushing over to him to slide my hand over his slick, sun red skin and running as fast as I can to prepare myself a cold bath, I hover for a moment, still watching.   
  
He may only be 23, but _mercy_, he has become an image to behold.   
  
And behold him I do. Often and regularly.   
  
The only reason I can get away with it is that he doesn't _know_ he is so visually attractive, and thinks that I watch him only to keep up with what he is doing in my service.   
  
Poor innocent Sam. Sometimes I feel like an old cunning fox, sneaking about and preying on him when he least suspects it.   
  
Well, if the chicken is too naïve to stop preening and flashing his feathers right in front of the fox's nose, he'll find himself dragged into the fox's den before he even knows what is happening.   
  
But that's a ridiculous image. Sam isn't a chicken… he's a rooster.   
  
I almost have to physically shake myself to stop my brain wandering down the road to imagining Sam the upright young cock in my yard… and myself as the hen.   
  
Oh dear. A hen? –when did I become so hopeless?   
  
I know the answer to that: when Sam Gamgee grew up. When he stopped being the grubby, noisy, inquisitive little sprout who swooned at Bilbo's stories and became this strong, capable lad with hard, compact muscles and–   
  
But, for all the physical changes apparent in Sam, inwardly I don't think that he has changed at all from the little boy I remember him being.   
  
Indeed, sometimes Sam seems almost painfully innocent, and I have to stop myself from teasing him with what he doesn't understand. I have often wondered if Sam even knows where babes come from. Surely the gaffer has had _that_ talk with him?   
  
Though, I have noticed, on the rare occasions when I am telling my younger cousins one of those dirty jokes they love so much, (I think it makes them feel grown up to hear such things from me) Sam can be seen just politely blinking and staring whilst even Pippin is on the floor rolling with mirth.   
  
Poor Sam. He doesn't understand what he has become, and what that is doing to me. I have to stop being tempted to show him.   
  
I find that my hands are shaking, and I have been staring far too long.   
  
"Samwise Gamgee," I say eventually, twisting my voice into a playful scold and shaking my book at him. He stops in mid-shovel and turns to me. "You should put your shirt back on –you are distracting me from my reading."   
  
Obviously a flirt. Yes, obvious to anyone else, not to Sam Gamgee. I know he won't take my teasing for what it is.   
  
He blinks at me for a moment and I wait for his confused 'yes, Mr. Frodo' as he reaches for his shirt.   
  
It doesn't come. Instead, a grin breaks out across his face and I am the one confused.   
  
He stabs the blade of his shovel lightly into the earth by the compost heap and leans on the handle, fixing me with level eves as his grin turns sly.   
  
"But it's so hot, Mr. Frodo," he says simply, and wipes a hand slowly across his brow as if to prove it.   
  
I am struck dumb.   
  
This is not the reaction I had been expecting to my casual tease. But I can't quite fathom exactly what this reaction means.   
  
"Very well," I finally manage to splutter, forcing some semblance of a smile, "I was going inside now anyway."   
  
Sam slides his thumb underneath a leather brace and nods. "Do you need anything else, Mr. Frodo?" he asks, not loosing that wry grin.   
  
I hastily shake my head and flee.   
  
Back in the cool safety of my study with a mug of tea on the desk before me, I rub my hands across my eyes. Then I rub harder, trying to rid myself of the image burned into my retina: the image of Sam so flushed with heat and sweat.   
  
I wonder if he would get so deliciously sweaty when making love…   
  
"Stop it!" I hiss to myself, palms pressed into my eye sockets. "He's just a boy."   
  
It will be years before that innocent lad even thinks about sexual matters, so I have to stop this nonsense right away. No matter how I may have imagined he reacted before, he doesn't understand such things, and is _not_ interested in me!   
  
Outside, Sam is humming tunelessly as he works. Drawn on an irresistible impulse, I find that I have shifted away from my desk and am standing by the window, peering out to watch him.   
  
Over by the tool shed, Sam leans the shovel back into it's correct position and reaches for the rake.   
  
I watch silently as he works about the yard, still without a shirt on, raking up leaves. It's like watching Gandalf's fireworks: I am mesmerized.   
  
Sam is not far from my window when he stops. He is standing so I can see him in profile and seems to be looking at something down on Bagshot row.   
  
But before I can wonder what would be so interesting as to distract Sam from his work, I notice his hand on the rake. It is sliding, very slowly, almost in a caress, towards the tip.   
  
I shiver, but cannot look away. I wonder if I am insane, but that gesture seems almost like…   
  
Sam's thumb circles the smooth, rounded tip of the wooden handle as his other hand comes up to grip it a small distance beneath.   
  
I almost choke when the fingers of the higher hand circle the timber and begin sliding down again. Only a short way, then slowly, torturously, back up.   
  
Blood is pounding in my ears. There is no mistaking that type of stroke. Sam's expression seems wistful, and I wonder if he is imagining the rake handle is himself. I swallow hard. Panting, I suddenly realise that my own hand is pressed against my hip, creeping inwards and down…   
  
I wrench my hand away and use it to painfully tug my hair instead. _Move away_ I tell myself _just leave!_   
  
But I can't. Sam's hand continues to move, caressing the rake, now moving down as he begins to lower his head.   
  
I have to clamp a hand over my mouth when Sam's lips press against the end of the handle.   
  
My whole body is trembling now and I have to fight to keep from crying out. Just when I don't think it can get any worse, Sam's lips part, the tip sides in past his teeth… and he looks over at me.   
  
I must have fallen over, because suddenly, I am on my backside on the floor, and Sam's head is appearing at the window above me. I blink stupidly because I cannot remember if I tripped trying to flee the scene, or trying to scramble out the window to get to him.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, are you alright?" he is leaning in to peer at me, his bare lower belly almost crushing the flowers in the window box.   
  
"Yes, yes," I splutter as I pick myself up.   
  
He looks me up and down, concerned. Suddenly his eyes stop, resting on the evident ridge in my breeches.   
  
Oh, dear…   
  
I nearly fall over again when his eyes slide up to mine, and he grins mischievously.   
  
"Y-you knew," I stammer, feeling numb and witless under that gaze. "You knew I was watching."   
  
"Oh, aye," he replies casually, leaning back out of the window. He picks up a trowel from the window box before saying; "I can always tell when you are watching me."   
  
Mild outrage turns to despair as I watch his fingers curl about the handle of the trowel, thumb circling the tip. It is a new tool and has a smooth, clean wooden handle about the same size as a…   
  
"Don't," I choke helplessly as Sam lifts it to his lips.   
  
He grins and suddenly, the handle is gliding smoothly into his mouth.   
  
Dear, sweet, innocent Sam…   
  
There is the clatter of a trowel dropping when I lunge forward, gripping him by the ears.   
  
It's a pity so many of the flowers in my window box were crushed as I dragged him into my den.


End file.
